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Originally published in February, 2012 on this blog:

Poem at the Lake

The poem seems familiar

As I read the metal plate
On which it’s written
On the back of a park bench
Beside the duck-filled lake.
I add the numbers twice
To get it right
1993-2000 equals seven
2008 – would make him fifteen
When he died.
“We love you, Dylan”
Printed below the verse.
The family I do not know
Nor the story behind the young death,
But as a human I make up stories,
As a woman my eyes fill with tears,
As a Mother I feel a searing pain.

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first published Arizona Republic – Gilbert
The Moo Cows Are Gone
          By Connie Wesala
I took my usual route to the mall last Saturday; radio blaring with country music, singing along with Taylor Swift. As traffic slowed for the light I waited for the smell to hit. 
On the southeast corner of the intersection is a large dairy. I never had the time, or the inclination I’ll admit, to sit and count them. My guess would be several hundred cows. It sometimes smelled more like a thousand, depending on the wind. I moved to Gilbert four and a half years ago from north Scottsdale. My friends and family thought I’d lost my mind. But I was ready for a change! A big change, but one that didn’t include leaving my kids behind in Arizona. I chose a well-developed 55+ community and began to build a new home. During construction I drove the newly opened San Tan freeway weekly to check on the progress. I turned south onto two-lane rutted black-top but mostly dirt roads. As I headed east on a street I kept calling German, I relished the country views. True, it wasn’t Pinnacle Peakor Camelback Mountain, but it felt like rural Oklahomawhere I grew up. Tractors and chicken coops, occasional sheep and even a llama. Goats and lots of horses. And then on Germann and Greenfield – the cows!
I always slowed to check them out. Cows are interesting creatures. At certain times of the day they would huddle along the southeast fencing and stand quietly swishing their tails at insects, twitching their ears occasionally, and staring at you with those big dark “cow eyes.” They seemed to be watching the ridiculous sight of humans zipping past in four wheeled contraptions, like bees buzzing along the road from one place to another all day long. Humans were odd creatures too, always moving, talking, singing, cursing and always in a hurry. I could almost hear the cow saying to the friend next to her – “where do you think they’re all going?” or perhaps when I passed by, “What do you suppose she’s singing?”
Some people hated the odor. It hit about three blocks from the corner before you even saw the cause of the stench. Even with windows closed and AC on, the car would fill quickly with the pungent smell — a blend of hay, manure, dirt and cow patties. On really bad days, you might scrunch your nose and go ‘phew’, might close the air vents although that rarely helped. A stop light replaced the four way signs, helping you move past a little quicker, but as the population outgrew the two-lane road, you might sit through two or three change of lights, grumbling as your leather seats absorbed the smell. During feeding time, they all moved to the west and stood facing traffic along Greenfield Road, row after row after row – heads through the iron bars that divided them, chewing their morning or evening meal, intent on the trough in front of them.
Some mornings as I raced to work, I envied them. Calm, peaceful, lazy days standing around chatting with girl friends, joining them for a leisurely evening meal, and tucking in early so they’d be up the next morning for milking. I never got to see the milking. By the time I passed horse farms and a few fenced-in goats and hens staring at my sleepy morning face, the cows would already be milling around enjoying the early morning coolness.
When my daughter was little we often drove from Minnesota to Oklahoma, and as we passed through Iowaand Kansasfarmland, she would spot them from her child seat behind me – “moo cows” she would say with delight – “moo cows, mommy.” And her dad and I would grin and agree – yep, moo cows. Perhaps that fond memory increased my daily enjoyment of the dairy. Or perhaps I was simply reliving my own Oklahoma childhood.
In addition to the farmland, I grew to love the old falling-down buildings and the structure on the corner of Queen Creek and Greenfieldwith the American flag painted on its roof. I kept intending to get out on a Saturday morning to photograph it all and never did. First I missed capturing the potato farm building on Power and Pecos. Then one after another the buildings disappeared. And then last Saturday as I approached the dairy, I realized that something was missing. I hadn’t driven that stretch for a week or more. As I came square-on at the corner, there it was – a huge, vacant, silent plot of empty stalls and buildings and feed troughs.
I stared in disbelief and for a quick second had ridiculous thoughts like – did they take them on a vacation for a few days to a cool indoor barn? I had to face the fact that they were gone for good. My cows, my dairy. I took it as a personal affront. Wait a minute. I moved here for the country scenes; I moved here to recapture something I’d long missed. Who decided to change MY plans? I never got my photograph, and if I don’t move quickly all the other nostalgic places will disappear before my eyes. I’m not big on change, and this one hit me hard.
Later that evening with tears in my voice, I called my daughter to tell her, “The moo cows are gone.”

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I love going through builders’ home models. I get loads of decorating ideas, plus it’s just fun to imagine myself in a new home. I also love to move – well, I love to move; I don’t love “moving.” I’ve built four houses in my lifetime, and I like to see new floor plans and use of space. When I built my current home I visited the models at least a half dozen times. And during the build, went back again and again as I made choices about flooring, counter tops, cabinets, light –fixtures, etc. There were things I didn’t care for, of course – like the burnt orange walls the decorator chose in the living room and master bedroom. And there were things I couldn’t afford – like true cherry wood kitchen cabinets. Mine are maple stained cherry.
I loved the 8’ long bar/counter top that curved in stone along the kitchen, living room and dining room. When you open the front door, the three open rooms appear spacious and lovely. A great party house, my realtor kept saying, and it is. It’s light and open with room for people to stand around and visit and graze from the open bar. It’s easy for the cook to set out more food and prepare beverages while being part of the party. When people come for dinner, we wind up sitting at the long bar. The dining table has been used a half dozen times in six years. On holidays, it is nice to stand and prep or cook while the kids sit and talk to me. Sounds great, right?
Funny thing is though – in the model, they didn’t have mail stacked on one end, a purse flung beside it, note pads and pens and grocery lists strewn full length. They didn’t have dirty pans and preparation utensils sitting in the sink just opposite the dishes you just served. Their stove wasn’t covered with spills or boiling pots, or cookie sheets cooling from the oven. Their stainless refrigerator had no smudges; their dish washer wasn’t humming a few feet from guests. There were ceramic roosters and red glass canisters, a bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers – lovely to look at until the practical every day living begins.
You walk in the front door to the smells, the oven heat, the noise of the dishwasher, and the pots and pans stacked in each of the two stainless steel sinks. The bar is a catch-all for everything that comes through the garage door on its way to other rooms. Some times it’s stacked so high I have trouble sitting down alone to eat dinner.
My next house will have a breakfast room at the front, an enclosed kitchen, and a kitchen desk to hold the receipts, bills, lists. For now I’m stuck with the openness and if I just spend an hour or two a day cleaning up after myself, it works just fine.
It’s sort of like the satin ribbon-tied towels in the model bathroom, and the paperless office desk and the always made and wrinkle-free beds. Lovely to look at; impossible to keep.

To blog or not to blog — that is the question…

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I began this blog two years ago when I began a new journey into my third life: retirement, empty nest, aging, and starting what I hoped to be a new career as a writer.

I was flooded with excitement, creativity, and ideas. I was writing daily, taking classes, and loving the journey.
This morning I realized I hadn’t posted in over two weeks which leads me to all sorts of questions with few answers.
Granted I just spent four months selling my home and moving – a time-consuming, frustrating, and at times overwhelming experience. Not to mention the fatigue, aching muscles, and brain-dead monotony of it all.
There were the holidays of course; but mostly there was: The Novel.
That damnable creation that grew into this monstrous commitment, begging for completion. And suddenly what creativity occasionally reared its head had to be popped down like one of those mole in the hole games.
So for the next few months, as this manuscript grows inch by inch, I will post old pieces from the past two years and occasionally an excerpt from the book that is being birthed.
Here I go into yet another phase of the journey called life. What comes next? If only I knew. But I am now a writer whose time and energy can be focused on a narrow path to that future. Will this novel ever be published? Make money? Fame? Who knows? They may just be pages in a box that some one finds down the road.
But somehow its completion is a necessary step in my process.

Down Sizing? Not Yet

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Many of my friends are currently down-sizing — minimizing — throwing out —getting rid of — giving away. They are into less is more, a few simple objects, a minimalist décor. I have one friend who says he keeps just enough to slip out of town on an hour’s notice. He has a truck; no u haul required. Yes, male.
This move I promised to get rid of “stuff”, and I did take four good-sized boxes to Good Will, my china to my daughter’s china hutch and filled the trash bin many times.
Then the moving van delivered my stuff to the new house, and I began to dust off my furniture in preparation for my belongings. I wanted a few family photos; I wanted memories – my little Eiffel Tower from last year’s trip to Paris, my marble egg from Florence, the box my friend brought me from Bali, the tea tin my son gave me from the U.K. Antiques from various cities in the U.S., the photo of my dad and nephew in Daniel’s Austin Healey – dad in his jaunty driver’s cap and a big grin.
The boxes of baby pictures, rattles, blankets, and graduation tassels will remain unboxed this time, but they will find a “closet home” until I die. Which the kids say will be in THIS house as they aren’t moving me again!
Once my entertainment center was full of CDs’, DVDs’, books, memorabilia and pictures, I was “home.” The rest doesn’t matter – I’ll find a place for the contents of the other eighty-seven (yes, 87) boxes later.
 I guess I’m just not ready to down-size. Sorry, guys….

God’s Wake Up Call

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This was written just after the Sandy Hook massacre, three years before the recent event in San Bernardino, CA. NPR reports that there have been 355 massacres this year in the U.S. (massacres defined as 4 or more people.) 462 people killed. 1314 injured.

 And yet we continue to watch it play out on t.v. Some will say that the press plays a part. Deranged people looking for publicity to acknowledge their senseless acts. Perhaps. Some say gun control. There are statistics that refute that.

We have thousands of brilliant researchers who could perhaps lead us to a solution in this country. But is anyone listening? Are the politicians listening? They call for more guns in the hands of citizens. They call for mental health care and provide no money to achieve it. They say watch your neighbors and people on the street, but we so often hide inside our walled yards, never look up from our cell phone screens, never walk down the street to meet a new neighbor.

There has to be a solution to senseless violence in a civilized country. And yet, the blog below was written in 2012 and it is 2015 and we have lost 462 lives. I’m feeling very discouraged that we simply don’t really care — deep down where it counts — maybe we don’t care. The first line of this 2012 blog asks a question. The answer it seems is a resounding “no.”

Did it take the deaths – the murders – of twenty innocent children for God to get our attention? Has He finally forced America to look at itself? Things have gone terribly wrong:

When entrepreneurship becomes greed.
When freedom becomes a free-for-all.
When personal gain becomes more important than the good of the whole.
When the fact that health care, physical and mental, is being withheld from 65% of a country’s population becomes less important than political infighting.
When our leaders no longer lead.
When respect and kindness and caring no longer exist.
What then?
If we all, as a country, sit and grieve and become filled with anger at this senseless act, imagine how God must feel right now.
Our God is not a wrathful God, but I imagine that he is in a rage at our human frailties, and our lack of concern for each other in small ways and in large.
It is time Americalooks at its soul instead of its pocket books.
It’s time to look at the laws of the country – not only weapon control but accessible and mandatory mental health care.
It’s time we all grow up and stop using drugs and sex and violence to avoid our personal feelings and responsibilities.
It’s time we fall to our knees.

(google images – tears of God)

Who Knew?

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I’ve bought and sold a dozen houses over the years. Never thought I’d have to check in with my kids! But this week when I announced I’d signed a contract on a new home, the expressions on my two adult children told it all. “But we haven’t seen it,” they replied. I’d like to think it’s just their interest in my happiness, but somehow I wonder if they think I‘ve grown too senile and old to make the decision alone. I think I’ll stick with my happiness.
Passing of the china! I have owned this white, silver-rimmed china for forty years. It has been moved from house to house over many miles, many dining room tables, and many decades. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter – year after year from age twenty-seven to sixty-seven.
Here I am moving again. This time, even though the house is no smaller than my current one, I have decided to purge my belongings. I got on-line to see if the pattern was still available and found that it was. I priced it on eBay and Amazon and was pleasantly surprised at its value. I saw dollar signs! I took photos and wrote my description for the ads. Just before I posted, I phoned my sister and daughter and said, “Hey, do you guys want this stuff?” I was shocked when my daughter said, “Absolutely!”
My daughter is very modern; a post-punk-era child. Her home décor is black and chrome, with reds and purples and skulls and cupcakes and Copenhagen! You know the style. I was quite taken aback that she would even want “china” among her possessions.
Yesterday, she carefully bubble-wrapped and packed each piece, boxed it, and took it home. I had to smile at the irony. At one time she had her hair dyed black, cut short with a mullet; steel-toed Doc Martins on her feet, heavy metal chains hanging in various places and multiple ear piercings.
But here she was, my thirty-nine year old daughter, sitting on the floor in jeans and a Nordstrom’s green cotton tee top, flip flops, silver hooped earrings; her hair pulled back into a pony tail, with no make-up, packing china to take to her own home. Just before she left, she said something that startled me. “I told dad I was getting your wedding china, and he said he couldn’t believe you still had it.”
It stopped me in my tracks! I hadn’t thought of it as wedding china for twenty-five or thirty years and the term threw me off-kilter. I had completely forgotten that her dad and I had picked that pattern forty years ago. We’ve been divorced for twenty-five of those. I suddenly understood her desire and the nostalgia surrounding the dishes.
It felt as if I were handing down the crown to the next generation. Perhaps it will sit on her dining table one holiday soon where I will be the guest. 

Faith Is So Hard

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                Last night in the check-out line at Home Depot, I watched a little girl’s face as she and her dad decided on Christmas tree ornaments and decorations. They had two of those large clear plastic boxes that hold 36 or 48 ornaments of similar color and size. The clerk scanned the price, and Dad decided one box would do. The little girl’s face fell just a fraction, but then she turned to the three long candy cane yard decorations by the register.
“They’re for my brothers,” she told the sales girl.
“You have three brothers?” the clerk asked.
“No — two. This one’s for me.” And she pointed to the green striped one; the other two were red. She beamed from ear to ear, the loss of the second box of ornaments quickly forgotten. She gazed into her dad’s warm brown eyes and smiled so lovingly. I could see that at that moment her dad was the most wonderful person on the planet.
Several things stirred inside me – I remembered the faces of my son and daughter when they were young and gazed up at me with such love and appreciation. The way I felt about my own dad when I was a child and didn’t yet know his flaws. I watched the tableau closely – the subtle changes in her expression — from disappointment to acceptance, then to happiness, and to appreciation and love. All of that occurring in less than a minute.
My house sold a week ago, and I’ve been frantically looking for another. I wrote God a note and spelled out what I wanted this time. After each discouraging showing I felt let down. Then one came along that was tempting and beautiful, but it fell short of my desired criteria. I went home that night and cried myself to sleep – I wanted someone to share in this difficult decision. Then on Fri. I felt I found the perfect one – location, size, total remodel, lovely décor, and immaculate. I contacted my realtor immediately. We never got to see it. He called back with the disappointing news that it was sold – multiple offers – gone! I drove by anyway just to make myself feel miserable.
Then I grew angry with God. Really? Why? Ah, pretty please, I whined. I imagine that my Father looked just like the dad last night – a mixture of loving kindness and understanding, and sternness when I whined. I settled down. Ok, next time, maybe?
I still have these two symbolic candy canes to share, however – the knowledge that God does have a house for me just around the corner that will put me closer to friends and kids, and the gift of a lease-back for a month that gets us through the holidays so we can celebrate and enjoy this home one last time
In September I begged for the house to sell. God answered quickly – a sign that he agreed I thought. He must have seen my tears and felt my panic again on Friday when I begged for more time and He granted that prayer with the lease-back.
 And even better, there was a third candy cane I hadn’t expected. The house I didn’t get led me to an area I’d not thought of before – much further north and much closer to the people I love. It may be a perfect neighborhood. I wouldn’t have found it if God hadn’t closed that door.
I know He will say yes eventually. I just have to first get through the no’s. I remembered all of this as I watched that child’s face last night, and I smiled as she skipped off holding her candy canes in one hand and her dad’s hand in the other. Faith is easier when you’re a child. At my age I have to really work at it. So there’s a large printed note on my refrigerator now. “God has a house for you — a place just for you. He’s still working out the details and arranging the plan. Have Faith.”

Uprooting

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Starting over. I don’t know if moving to a new house is an actual starting over point or not. In many ways, life doesn’t change all that much. Or I keep telling myself that anyway. I drive in the area where I’m looking for a home and recognize the same large signs — Safeway, Target, Walmart, Fry’s, Chevron. . .
So how different can it be? I ask myself. But yesterday as I pressed the button for my e signature, the tears began and I felt like my roots were literally being pulled to the surface. Sometimes the small things change our lives as much as the major ones.

You don’t recognize it when the roots are forming. They are tiny tendrils that grow slowly over time.The neighbor who brings your trash from the street and places it right outside your garage door each Friday. The grocery store cashier who recognizes you and waves from the floral section where she’s working today.The barrista at your local Starbucks who starts preparing you drink before you even order. The knowledge that the nearest gas station is 1.65 miles from your drive. (because you’ve tested it more than once on fumes).

I’m not one of those people who has lived in a house for thirty years. A good friend of mine is facing that soon. For varying reasons my average is probably eight years, but that’s only because I raised my children in our Scottsdale home for twelve. And a couple of times we moved in less than three. My point is — how hard can this really be? You pack the boxes. I’ve weeded out so much from my move six years ago, it should be a piece of cake. You clean the house although mine is spotless from the recent showings. You hire the truck and set the day and time.

So why did I feel uprooted yesterday, if it’s so darned easy, I ask myself. Because change is scary. And even if the roots aren’t protruding from the base of the tree after thirty years, there are tender roots that are being pulled from my ground. Kind neighbors, familiarity, comfort. There’s a current song about southern comfort zones. I relate to that song. Not that I drink Southern Comfort, but the message fits my life and perhaps yours as well. One must leave their southern comfort zone in order to recognize and appreciate where you came from. Moving brings to the surface the relationships and experiences that form us.

I wish everyone well who is packing up their belongings and facing change right now, and I join your ranks not knowing where I will plant my next tree.

Smart Enough for a Smart Phone?

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I have a decent cell phone with a slide-out keyboard for texting that works just fine. In fact in the past two days I’ve probably texted well over three hours. I know! Ridiculous! No one talks any more. I’m thinking they should call these new gadgets something else.
The word “phone” somehow elicits the idea of talking, listening, dialing, communicating, voice tone, hesitations, long pauses, or silence. I suppose that’s why we have emoticons so we can tell what the other person is feeling or thinking without nonverbal cues. I never know if “I’m busy” means my friend is upset with me or simply really busy. I could tell if I could hear her voice.
As fine as my current phone is, my two-year contract is up and I am due a “free for $30.00” new one. So I went to look at Smart phones this past week. The camera is great. The internet is easy to use. I can get an app that will let me see an item’s price at a dozen different stores before I purchase it. I can use it to find recipes. I can check movie times. Siri will tell me where the closest Chinese restaurant is and how far to the next gas station. My iTunes music will sound fantastic. I can watch a movie on the plane. The phone will tell me when it’s time to take my medication or alert me to the fact that I turned left instead of right toward my destination. It will remind me of my sister’s birthday and allow me to send a digital card and even attach a gift card for her favorite restaurant. I can check calories on a meal if I’m eating out and keep track of my daily calorie count as well. Last week’s episode of my favorite TV program is easy to locate and replay so I don’t get behind on this season’s shows. I began to think there was nothing the device couldn’t do except possibly boil water.
After a half hour in the cellular store, I was a) confused; b) concerned I’m not smart enough for a smart phone, and c) do I really need a higher monthly bill with a contract or buy the phone and sign up for prepaid monthly usage with no contract. I was so confused I made the difficult decision to wait. However before I left the store I had one last question for the sales person. Perhaps it isn’t important, but I simply wanted to know. I looked him in the eye and asked, “Can I talk on it?”